Since he died, I have become very good at surviving in boring ways. Packing lunches. Answering school emails. Paying bills. Smiling when people say, « You’re so strong, » because what else are you supposed to say?
Miles changed too. He got quieter, but not shut down. Watchful. He notices tired cashiers. He asks if kids at school are okay. He carries other people’s sadness like it might spill if he does not hold it carefully.
That was Sam too.
Two days ago, Miles came home from school without Sam’s old baseball glove.
Sam wasn’t perfect. He forgot trash day all the time. He burned pancakes every Saturday and called them « extra flavor. » But he always stopped for people. That was just who he was.
Two days ago, Miles came home from school without Sam’s old baseball glove. I noticed before he even took his shoes off.
That glove was not just sports stuff. Sam had used it in high school, in college, and in every backyard game he ever talked his friends into. After he died, Miles treated it like a living thing. He kept it on his shelf. Sometimes he slept with it beside his bed.
So I said, very carefully, « Miles, where is your dad’s glove? »
